


Language

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, M/M, Morning Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera looks back up from the other’s foot, his toe already swelling with evidence of the hurt, brings his attention into sharp focus on Yamamoto’s face. 'Do you ever curse, baseball idiot?'" Gokudera realizes that Yamamoto never curses and sets out to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



It takes Gokudera a while to notice. Vocabulary isn’t not the sort of thing he pays much attention to, in general, and it rarely comes up in his day-to-day existence. In fact he doesn’t realize at all until some months after moving in with Yamamoto, after he’s convinced himself he knows everything there is to know about the other. He knows how Yamamoto likes his coffee (he doesn’t; he’ll drink milk or hot chocolate rather than Gokudera’s preferred caffeine), knows what kind of movies he likes (action comedies or, oddly, war documentaries), knows what he can cook (sushi and stew) and what he can’t (eggs and fried rice). But then there’s the morning Gokudera beats Yamamoto out to the kitchen and is already sitting at the kitchen table hunched over his obligatory mug of black coffee when the other comes out of the bedroom still a little hazy from sleep.

“Heya,” Yamamoto offers from the other side of the room. Gokudera looks up to see his smile, ready to snap rejection of the other’s early-morning cheerfulness, and he’s just getting his eyes to focus on the other when Yamamoto misjudges the distance to the corner of the wall and stubs his toe so hard Gokudera feels the sound jolt sympathetic pain up his spine.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera blurts, pushing to his feet and reaching out with instinct made useless by the gap between them. “Are you okay?”

“Ah.” Yamamoto folds to the ground, shoulders hunched and face twisted around pain. “Ouch.”

“Christ, that sounded like you broke something,” Gokudera says as he drops to his knees to reach out for Yamamoto’s foot. “You can curse, you know, it’s supposed to help it feel better.”

“Ha!” Even Yamamoto’s laugh is strained around agony, but he shakes his head anyway. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

Gokudera looks back up from the other’s foot, his toe already swelling with evidence of the hurt, brings his attention into sharp focus on Yamamoto’s face. “Do you  _ever_  curse, baseball idiot?”

“Huh?” Yamamoto looks up to meet his eyes, looking blank and lost for a minute. “Oh.” He blinks, considering, then shrugs and offers a smile bright enough to at least assuage Gokudera’s fears about his immediate pain. “Guess not? It doesn’t seem like it’s necessary, usually.”

Gokudera rocks back on his heels, staring at Yamamoto’s face. “Fuck,” he says, shocked into incoherence. Then he realizes what he just said, feels a frown sweep over his face. “Wait, does it bother you that  _I_  curse?”

Yamamoto laughs, reaches out to close his fingers at the sleeve of Gokudera’s t-shirt. “Of course not,” he says as he leans in, and Gokudera really should pull away and return to his cooling coffee but he stays still, watching Yamamoto’s smile draw closer to his mouth. “Anything you do is perfect.”

This is usual, at least, the variety of typical absurdity to which Gokudera has long since resigned himself. So he lets the subject drop, loses the train of thought to the press of Yamamoto’s lips instead, and by the time they make it to the table both Gokudera’s coffee and the thread of conversation have gone cold.

Gokudera hadn’t thought it was a big deal. It didn’t feel like a big deal at first. But then he started thinking about it, reflecting over years of memories, anything he could come up with, and he couldn’t remember a single occasion, not a reaction to pain or pleasure or even just surprise. It’s not the lack of cursing that bothers him, it’s not even that he’s  _bothered_ , exactly; it’s just that he starts thinking about it, and then he can’t stop, starts considering how the hard sounds of the words would sound shaped in Yamamoto’s voice, how the consonants would look formed on his lips, and it’s  _distracting_  and  _endless_  and he can’t think about anything else for hours.

The reasonable answer to the problem of his burning curiosity is just to get Yamamoto to curse. There are more problems with this than there seem to be, at first glance. First there’s the obvious solution, of just  _asking_  him to; Gokudera is sure Yamamoto would do it, would do anything at all the other asked of him without even bothering with a reason. But it’s not the same if it’s prompted; it needs to be genuine response to some stimulus. Pain is out right away, as is shock; Gokudera isn’t even sure how he could go about startling Yamamoto, let alone enough to draw an exclamation out of him beyond the other’s name. Which leaves pleasure as the obvious, best solution, and if the idea of using this tactic on Yamamoto leaves Gokudera flushed and breathless, well, it’s not like he can’t reap the benefits of his experiment as a side benefit.

He makes his move that Saturday. It’s not usual for Gokudera to wake up before Yamamoto; Yamamoto sleeps more deeply all the time, and unless Gokudera is fighting a cold or particularly exhausted Yamamoto usually gets an extra hour or two before he’ll stretch himself into consciousness. But today Gokudera has a plan and a lack of patience, and he turns over to face Yamamoto instead of fitting against him within minutes of rousing. Yamamoto mumbles in his sleep, something that would be protest if it didn’t sound so warmed-over with comfort, and Gokudera pushes at his shoulder to roll him over onto his back instead of curled on his side.

Yamamoto goes, moving under the force of the other’s hand, and he’s just starting to blink himself into the vague confusion of consciousness when Gokudera moves down to press his mouth to the other’s stomach instead of lingering to watch his eyes.

“ _Oh_ ” is the first thing Yamamoto says, his hips tilting up in immediate response before he has yet lifted his hands to touch his fingers to Gokudera’s hair. “Hayato?”

“Morning,” Gokudera says without looking up. He can feel Yamamoto’s sleepy laugh thrum through the skin under his lips, can feel the hazy affection in the touch pushing into his hair. Yamamoto’s half-hard and flushing hotter under the drag of Gokudera’s lips against his skin; Gokudera can feel the heat of him pressing against the other’s collarbone, resistance clear through the thin barrier of his boxers. Yamamoto doesn’t voice any kind of protest as Gokudera slides down against him, tips his hips up in compliance when the other hooks his fingers under the edge of the cloth, and by the time Gokudera has the minimal clothing off him Yamamoto is fully hard against his stomach, breathing fast enough that Gokudera can hear it catching in his chest.

This is familiar, easy, only the leading edge of Gokudera’s scheme but no less enjoyable for that. Yamamoto jerks when Gokudera’s lips brush against him, his hips rocking up in involuntary pursuit of more friction, and Gokudera gives in immediately, opening his mouth and tilting his head to take the other’s length over his tongue. Yamamoto lets a lungful of air go, the exhale stretching long and satisfied even though Gokudera’s barely started, and then he relaxes back to the sheets, relinquishes the pace over entirely to the other. Gokudera takes it without hesitation, lets his eyes shut so he can focus on the heat of Yamamoto sliding against his lips, and when he ducks in closer he can feel the sleepy reaction of the other in the way the fingers in his hair slide in response, push friction out across his scalp as he moves. Yamamoto is trembling with the sensation already, the weight of his cock pressing a familiar dull ache against Gokudera’s jaw and against his tongue, and he tastes warm and faintly salty but mostly he tastes like Yamamoto, languid heat and unrestrained appreciation under his skin and spilling up his throat into little moaning exhales in time with the movement of Gokudera’s head.

It doesn’t take very long, or maybe it just doesn’t feel like that long in the heat-haze of Gokudera’s head. Yamamoto’s fingers keep pushing against his hair, ruffling the strands with unconscious dedication, and he stays relaxed against the bed, until Gokudera only has a moment of warning when Yamamoto finally tenses under him. There’s the sound of a desperate inhale, fingers tightening reflexively on his hair, and then Yamamoto is gasping “ _Hayato_ ” like he’s forgotten how to say anything else as he jerks up and comes hot over Gokudera’s tongue. Gokudera doesn’t pull away, lets Yamamoto spill into his mouth as he shudders himself past the first wave of heat, and when he does move it’s slow, dragging so he sucks Yamamoto clean as he goes. The friction brings Yamamoto arching off the bed, whimpering a laugh at the sensation, and then Gokudera is pulling free of Yamamoto’s hands in his hair and rocking back over his heels to look down at Yamamoto spread out warm and satisfied underneath him.

Yamamoto takes a breath, his eyelashes shifting as he blinks himself back into coherency, tips his head to look up at Gokudera. His smile is soft, still sleepy around the edges and visibly hazy with pleasure.

“Morning,” and he’s reaching back out, fingers brushing against Gokudera’s arm. Gokudera leans in, though not for the reason Yamamoto thinks, lets the other pull him down into a kiss slow and warm and faintly sticky with the come still lingering at the back of Gokudera’s tongue. Yamamoto purrs at the catch of it, laughs without breaking the kiss as he licks the bitter off Gokudera’s lips. His movements are blurred with disconnect, his full movement into alertness delayed by his orgasm, but he’ll have plenty of time to wake up later. For now Gokudera just catches the heat off his lips, pressing friction against the other’s mouth for a moment before he pulls away and moves farther up the bed so he can reach for the drawer in the bedside table.

“Hayato,” Yamamoto says against his shoulder, lifting his head to press his mouth to Gokudera’s skin. His hands are fitting in against Gokudera’s hips, the contact no less warm for how idle it feels. “What about you?”

Gokudera laughs, amusement going sharp with anticipation as he finds the bottle he’s looking for and slides back over the bed. “Patience,” he says, forgoing another kiss in favor of moving back to where he was and settling his weight between Yamamoto’s knees. “Who said I was done with you yet?”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, pleased and warm, and he lets his knees slide wider as Gokudera gets the bottle open, tipping his hips up expectantly even though he’s got some time to go before he’ll be hard again. That was part of Gokudera’s plan, too, making the most of the delay required by the first-round orgasm, so when he reaches out with slick fingers he’s moving slowly, watching Yamamoto’s face to gauge his reaction as he eases a pair of fingers inside the other. Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter again, casting the melting unfocus still lingering in his eyes into shadow for a moment, and his lips turn up on a smile, his shoulders shifting like he’s trying to work himself in closer. Gokudera can feel how relaxed he is, how easy it is to slide into him, and the awareness is enough to send another rush of blood to his already-hard cock until he can feel the head catching slick at the inside of his boxers. He can see heat flushing across Yamamoto’s cheeks, color spilling pink across his cheekbones and warmth lingering damp against his lips, and he might not be hard yet but that doesn’t mean he’s not responsive, his breathing coming fast enough that Gokudera can see the motion in his chest and his legs shifting wider like he’s making an offering of himself. Gokudera can watch his fingers sinking into the other’s body, can feel every time his touch draws Yamamoto tense around him, and he doesn’t even realize he’s purring satisfaction on his exhales. His fingers are sliding easily, working deeper on each thrust, and Yamamoto’s legs are trembling under the pressure, the other’s head tipped back and his eyes completely shut to the heat Gokudera can see going darker under his skin.

Gokudera can watch Yamamoto’s cock going hard again in response to the friction of his fingers, can see the way he jerks at Gokudera angling his fingers up to press harder against him, and finally it’s Gokudera who says “Fuck” and slides his fingers free all at once. His hands are starting to shake from anticipation, his legs trembling until he’s not certain they’ll hold his weight, but he slides back anyway, sits against the bed so he can strip his own boxers off while Yamamoto blinks hazy inattention at the ceiling.

“Turn over,” he says as he gets back onto his knees, grabs at Yamamoto’s hip to urge him onto his stomach. That gets him the focus of gold eyes on his features, a faint questioning sound, but Yamamoto obeys without putting words to the confusion at this unusual request. It’s almost a shame -- Gokudera does like to watch Yamamoto’s face when he comes undone, likes to see the way his lips go soft around the sound of pleasure in his throat -- but it will be worth it in a minute, he’s sure. Yamamoto pushes himself over, slides himself back so he can rock up over his knees and steady himself against the sheets, and Gokudera kneels behind him, bracing Yamamoto in place with a hand at his hip while he strokes the last of the lube on his fingers over the aching heat of his own cock. The friction feels good but it’s not enough, not when he’s already lost thinking of what Yamamoto will feel like, what Yamamoto will  _sound_  like, and he growls formless noise that is partially impatience and mostly anticipation as he comes up over his knees and starts the process of lining himself up.

It’s more careful, this time. Usually it’s enough to hold Yamamoto in place, to tilt his hips forward and let himself slide home, but this is different, this is the most crucial part of his plan, now that he has all the pieces he needs. When he pushes Yamamoto forward it’s to shift the angle of his hips instead of just to brace himself, when he rests his hand flat against the other’s back it’s to hold him into the right arch of his back while Gokudera fits himself into place. Even then he hesitates, considers the angle he needed with his fingers to get those shuddering convulsions of pleasure from the other, checks the distance of his knees and the angle of his own hips.

Then he takes a breath, secure in as much preparation as he can bring to bear, and when he slides himself forward it’s with the quick force of complete commitment.

There’s no hesitation in Yamamoto’s reaction. Gokudera can feel his spine arch, can feel the other tense around his cock as Gokudera presses in at precisely the right angle to hit the sensitive nerves inside the other, and Yamamoto chokes on a breath before he gasps “ _Hayato,_ ” sounding weird and strained under the force of the sensation.

“Yeah,” Gokudera says, incoherent appreciation, and draws back to thrust in again along that same angle. Yamamoto jerks, this time, his hands closing into fists on the bed, and there’s almost a sound on his inhale, some word Gokudera can’t quite catch.

“Sorry.” His voice dips low, resonance undermining any sincerity in his apology. “What was that?” He slides back slow, drawing the motion long so he can feel Yamamoto shake under him. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Yamamoto turns his head up from the sheets, takes an inhale so carefully Gokudera can hear the deliberate reach for coherency in the sound. “I was--”

Gokudera snaps his hips forward again, harder even than the first time. He can see Yamamoto’s expression collapse out of focus, his mouth coming open on whatever he was going to say, and when he gasps “ _Fuck_ ” the sound goes through Gokudera like electricity.

“ _Yes_ ,” and it tastes like victory, this rush of heat in his veins. Gokudera leans in forward, resting his weight in against Yamamoto’s hips, fucks into him again. “Keep talking, Takeshi.”

“Wh-what?” Yamamoto says, sounding so lost that Gokudera almost feels bad. Then Gokudera thrusts forward, the motion quick with the slippery heat between them, and Yamamoto’s words cut off into a wailing gasp, a sharp burst of “ _Christ_ ” like it’s startled out of him. His voice keeps dropping low on the words, the emotion coming like exclamations over his tongue, and Gokudera is feeling every syllable like a rush of victory, adrenaline coursing through him and pushing his motions faster.

“You sound amazing,” he says, letting his hand slide down farther so he can push Yamamoto’s shoulders against the bed instead. Yamamoto doesn’t resist, lets himself lean heavy against the sheets; Gokudera can hear the shocked heat in his inhales, can feel the other clenching tight around him with the impact of every thrust. “Do you even need me to touch you?”

“Hayato--” Yamamoto starts, and Gokudera rocks his hips as far forward as he can go, pushes himself in deep and fast, and Yamamoto jerks and his words die on his tongue. There’s another catch of sound, “ _Fuck_ ” breaking apart between the syllables, and Yamamoto is shuddering and quaking and answering Gokudera’s question without the need for words. Gokudera laughs, the sound purring heavy and low in his chest, and keeps thrusting while Yamamoto spills over the sheets and whimpers incoherent pleasure on every movement. He can feel each individual wave of heat as it ripples through Yamamoto’s body, like the other’s orgasm is deliberately urging him towards his own. As tension draws into anticipation in his spine he lets himself tip forward, lets his rhythm go staccato and uneven, and then he’s coming too, heat rushing out into him and catching his breathing shallow and loud in his throat. He’s gasping for air, his forehead pressed against the hand braced on Yamamoto’s shoulder, and he can’t even think for a moment, just gasps the heat-heavy air into his lungs and lets his thoughts skid out on the unconcern of radiant pleasure.

Yamamoto is still shaking by the time Gokudera comes back into his usual self-awareness, still panting for breath against the sheets as the other takes his weight back over his knees and slides free. All his skin is glowing with the sheen of sweat and pleasure together, his hands trembling against the sheets and his gaze out-of-focus even when Gokudera urges him sideways, pushes at his hip to turn him over onto his back. It makes Gokudera grin, victory purring warmth into his thoughts, and even with the sticky heat of their skin catching together it’s worth it to lean in, to press his mouth to Yamamoto’s shoulder in a kiss before dragging his teeth in the threat of an almost-bite against the skin.

“Sometimes it  _is_  necessary, right?” he says, the words turning incoherent against Yamamoto’s shoulder.

There’s a sigh above him, a shaky arm falling in over his shoulders to pull him in closer. “What?” Yamamoto asks, but when Gokudera lifts his head the other’s eyes are shut, his lips curving on a smile so soft it speaks to his lack of attention before Gokudera has even spoken.

“Don’t worry about it,” he soothes, reaching up to fit his fingers in against Yamamoto’s hair and stroke the damp strands back from his forehead.

Yamamoto’s smile goes wider, he turns his head in towards Gokudera without opening his eyes. “Okay,” he agrees, drowsy and overheated, and Gokudera leans in to kiss the soft give of his lips.

It doesn’t really matter what he’s saying, in the end. Gokudera never gets tired of Yamamoto’s mouth.


End file.
